


Work to Be Done

by temperamental_mistress



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Class Differences, First Meetings, Gen, Worker's Rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 05:29:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11434140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temperamental_mistress/pseuds/temperamental_mistress
Summary: Feuilly had seen this before, richer men claiming to want a better life for them, but shying away from the actual work involved. They wanted the credit without any of the effort.





	Work to Be Done

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mochi_Jupe_Jaune (spacestationtrustfund)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/gifts).



Sunset turned to dusk in the time it took Feuilly to leave the workshop and arrive at his usual cafe in search of supper. His eyes and fingers ached after hours of work to add fine details to a fan that had occupied the better part of his week. His mind drifted as he went through the motions of ordering food and finding a seat beside his fellows from the workshop. The food, while not particularly tasty, was warm and left him feeling fuller than he had felt after his spare lunch. At least he had something to eat. When work dwindled, there was only so far that he could stretch his meager pay. 

As his spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl, Feuilly turned to the man on his left, "How is your sister, Michel?"

"Better, thank God. We had feared the worst, you know," Michel said, contemplating the last of his bread before popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. The exhaustion was plain on his face, but even this was an improvement upon the terror and despair of the previous week. 

"I am glad to hear it," Feuilly smiled. "You will let me know if there is anything I can do?" 

Michel laughed, "You have done enough, my friend. Had you not encouraged me to join the mutual aid society, I fear the situation would be very different." He raised his glass in a silent toast and drank. 

"Go back to your own cafe!" another man's voice carried over the chatter and noise of the evening, drawing Feuilly's attention to the back corner of the room. A crowd of men were gathered around a single table, but he couldn't make out who they were yelling about. He tried to return to his own business, but the shouting continued. 

When he rose to join the crowd, he saw three young men who were obviously out of place. One, in an alarmingly red waistcoat, leaned against the wall. The other two, one blonde and the other with dark curls, sat at the table. If he had to guess, Feuilly would say they were students. They were too well dressed to be workingmen, but not quite put together enough to be anything else. 

The man with the curls was speaking, but Feuilly could not make out his words over the din. He pushed closer, curious what could possibly be the source of all the commotion. It was not unheard of for a student to stop into the cafe, after all. 

“...and so we are working for justice, for the rights of all men to-” 

“This isn’t your fight,” Feuilly said. He had seen this before, richer men claiming to want a better life for them, but shying away from the actual work involved. They wanted the credit without any of the effort. 

The blonde man looked directly at him, focused despite the buzz of people surrounding him on all sides, “It should be everyone’s fight. No man deserves to be stripped of his rights, and all men should be offended and willing to put an end to such tyranny.” 

“And how do you expect to do that?” Feuilly pressed, crossing his arms as those standing nearest to him leaned in to hear. 

“There are untold numbers of workers in Paris alone,” the student said. “Your voices don’t reach the ears of the king because you do not shout as one. By organizing-” 

“They will arrest us! Kill us, even!” the interruption was swiftly followed by a half dozen others of a similar mind. 

“We are already dying!” Feuilly shouted, and the voices around him quieted. “We have all known a slow season. Each of us knows someone who is ill, someone who cannot afford to buy a filling meal, someone who can no longer find work.” He looked to Michel, who stood on the very edge of the crowd, uncertainty in his eyes. “We have our aid societies, yes, and they have done us immeasurable good, but that is all we have. We are not dead yet, but we are hardly living! I would rather die fighting for something better than wait for what little rights we still have to disappear.” 

There were a few murmurs of agreement around him, but just as many voices of disapproval. Of course Feuilly would respond as he did, one man argued, when he had no family to support. He didn’t risk nearly as much by speaking out as a man with a wife and children did. The stakes were too high, others insisted. 

All the while, the blonde man continued to meet Feuilly’s gaze with the same cool, impassive expression as before. He claimed to know their plight, but did he really understand? Did he know the depth of the problems that plagued the working man? Feuilly ignored the cacophony of voices rising around him, searching for answers in the student’s face. 

At last, the blonde man broke eye contact and stood, inviting his companions to join him with a silent touch to each man's arm. The workingmen only took this as further cause for heckling as the students made their way toward the door. 

"See how he leaves at the first sign of a fight?"

"The cowards wouldn't know hardship if they stepped in it!" 

Feuilly watched as the trio pushed their way through the crowd. The dark-haired man looked as though he were ready to fight every last man in the room, while his boldly dressed comrade seemed more disappointed than anything. 

“You are leaving, then?” Feuilly couldn’t stop himself from calling after the blonde man. He had seen something in his eyes, something he couldn’t quite name. 

Somehow, through the ever increasing din, the man heard him and turned back, “There is work to be done, citizen. If there is to be a fight for the rights of all men, I intend to make myself ready.” 

And with that, he departed. 

Michel clapped Feuilly on the shoulder, inviting him back to their usual seat, “They are young hotheads. They will learn quickly enough that they don’t know what they’re talking about.” 

But Feuilly was not convinced. Perhaps this was different. Maybe this was the time to finally do something about all of his frustrations. Grabbing his hat from the table, he rushed to the door just in time to catch a glimpse of a blonde head turning the far corner of the street. 

“Wait!” he called, and took off after the disappearing man. “Citizen!” The word rose to his lips unbidden. It felt right, somehow. 

When he reached the corner, he found the blonde student waiting for him beneath a streetlamp, though his two companions had continued on. 

“I would join you,” Feuilly said, breathless. 

The man smiled, “I am glad to hear it.” 

“My time is not so free as yours,” Feuilly went on, “but I am no stranger to hard work. And you will need someone who knows the minds of workingmen.” 

“I have some friends to introduce you to,” the man said and extended a hand.


End file.
